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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26730517">Not a Hero</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flanker27_UK/pseuds/Flanker27_UK'>Flanker27_UK</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 09:34:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,322</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26730517</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flanker27_UK/pseuds/Flanker27_UK</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>How Cormoran won his medal</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Robin shuddered and pulled her scarf tighter round her neck, pulling closer on the arm she was linked with, drawing herself into the big man she was walking with. He turned away and exhaled a stream of smoke, savouring one of the few Benson &amp; Hedges he allowed himself these days. Glancing down at the woman who had so recently become his partner in so many ways.</p><p>His face was blank, but he managed a slight smile, forcing himself to be pleasant although he was in turmoil inside.</p><p>
  <em>It’s not her fault, she doesn’t know, can’t know what happened.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Just keep calm, do your exercises it’s only a few hours, you can get through this, and try to forget.</em>
</p><p>“Cold? I did warn you it’s a load of standing around in November, I told you I wasn’t bothered”</p><p>Robin had been so delighted to see the official invite to attend the Cenotaph in Whitehall, with a reception after the service. Strike hadn’t the heart to tell her he hadn’t attended the service for many, many years. Duty forcing his attendance while in the Army, but never since.</p><p>Following the successful resolution of the Chiswell case, Strike’s profile had risen somewhat in government circles and some Whitehall flunkey, charged with inviting the great and good, designed to improve the flagging reputation of the incumbent Government had seen Strikes name, and seen the list of his awards and invited along a ‘wounded hero’ plus one.</p><p>Strike would have just ignored the embossed card, but, efficient Robin had spotted it and was inordinately pleased that her partner was being recognised for his achievement. So he hadn’t the heart to disappoint her and reluctantly agreed to attend.</p><p>They had almost had their 1<sup>st</sup> row a few days earlier when deciding what they should wear.</p><p>“Cormoran, it says ‘Medals to be worn’ where are yours?”</p><p>“Dunno, not seen them for years, probably chucked em out when I left Charlotte”</p><p>Of course this wasn’t enough for the fertile mind of Miss Ellacott, who remembered the box that the taxi driver had dropped off, not long after she had first started working for him.</p><p>“Hang on”</p><p>She skipped downstairs rooting around in the cupboard that stored the junk, vacuum cleaner and various accumulated bits and pieces, it was handy living with him in the little flat above the office, although she was busily searching for something a bit bigger, with less stairs. The better state of the business meant they could now afford to mov.</p><p>She saw it at the back &amp; pulled the dusty box out, still emblazoned with the word ‘Arsehole’</p><p>The Sellotape holding it together had perished and the folded lid opened easily. A red beret on top</p><p><em>Will he wear that, I know lots of veterans do</em>?</p><p>There were old envelopes of photographs, a quick glance revealed a fit athletic looking younger Strike, in a pair of Khaki shorts, dog tags around his neck, his unruly hair buzz cut with a number 2 all over. He was grinning that look she was getting to know so well, he had a faint sheen of sweat &amp; had a cricket bat nonchalantly leaning over his shoulder. She couldn’t stop the fierce surge of desire for the man she was getting closer too every day. Neither had used the ‘L’ word directly yet but she knew that was what she felt for him.</p><p>Putting exploring his photo collection aside, but certainly not forgetting wanting to review them, but with him, at a future point. She found a narrow velvet box, like you would get an expensive necklace in. clicking it open she exposed a row of 6 medals, their ribbons still bright, the metal still shiny and looking brand new, as if they had never been out of the box. The ribbons were multi coloured predominantly blues and reds, but bordered by a sandy colouring.</p><p>One however was different to the others, a cross rather than circular, a simple silver cross hanging from a plain white &amp; purple ribbon. Robin had no idea what these medals signified so decided she would just ask Cormoran. He wouldn’t mind telling her surely?</p><p>Entering the flat she presented them to her partner</p><p>“Ta-Ra thought I’d find them, they were buried in that box of stuff in the storage cupboard in the office”</p><p>If she expected him to be pleased then she was disappointed. Strike just put the on the kitchen shelf with a grunt.</p><p>“So will you tell me what they’re all for? You’ve got six”</p><p>He just grunted, she was used to taciturn Strike but this was grumpy, even for him.</p><p>“They’re nothing, just badges for where the Army sent me, a bit like the ones you sew on your rucksack when you go back-packing”</p><p>Robin raised one eyebrow at that comment</p><p>“What, don’t kids buy badges from their expeditions anymore? I’m getting old”</p><p>“Even the silver cross with the white &amp; purple ribbon, which looks special”</p><p>“So had a look have you? No that’s nothing special, none of them are fucking special and I wish you’d have just left them in the box, where they belong”</p><p>“I’m going for a fag”</p><p>And he stumped down the stairs, muttering about “leaving stuff in the fucking past where it belongs”</p><p>A shocked and upset Robin standing watching him go   </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Parade</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Cormoran &amp; Robin attend the Cenotaph</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They all stood silently, the distant sounds of London echoing around the ranks of people standing facing the Cenotaph. Strike stood next to Robin, stiffly at attention, miles away, his mind wandering as it always did on these sort of occasions. Travelling back to the situations he’d been in that were echoed in the many veterans surrounding him. He ached to take Robin’s hand, to derive some comfort on this awful day.</p><p>
  <em>Crawling through the Jungles of the Congo, a quiet, peace keeping operation that no one in the UK had noticed but that had inflicted scars on his body</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So many hot and cold desert campaigns Iraq, Afghanistan, different countries same god awful experiences, especially leaving his leg behind the last time</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But worse than that, Bosnia </em>
</p><p>
  <em>STOP STRIKE DON’T GO BACK THERE</em>
</p><p>Robin heard Strike counting under his breath, forcing his breathing into a controlled pattern, a pattern and method she knew all too well</p><p>
  <em>Sod protocol</em>
</p><p>She reached across and gently touched the back of his hand with hers</p><p>
  <em>Just so he knows, that I’m here for him. I wished I’d just binned that invite, I thought it was just his usual grumpy I didn’t realise it upset him this much. Remembrance works in so many ways. What on earth is he remembering that’s got him wound so tightly? Oh Ellacott what have you done!</em>
</p><p>Then the mournful bugle sounded the last post and the ceremony continued with the various dignitaries and organisations laying wreaths</p><p>Strike muttered under his breath as the leaders of the political parties stepped forward</p><p>“Clueless hypocrites the lot of them”</p><p>Robin, who had been holding his hand now for several minutes just squeezed it and leaned gently into him, trying to show she was here for him. She was rewarded by a look, and the eyes that seemed to burn into her soul, saying <em>I know, thank you.</em></p><p>“One of the few times I’m glad about my leg, otherwise I’d be roped in for the march past as well”</p><p>The hand squeeze was returned, with Strike moderating the power, not wanting to crush the hand that was engulfed in his.</p><p>Eventually the parades were over, the civilians watching from the pavements drifted away and the couple moved to the MoD where the lunch / reception was being hosted. Robin, looking stunning in her black dress, coat and hat with her hair styled much as she had had it at the long ago Roper Chard party, pulled the official invite from her bag and gained them admittance.</p><p>“Typical” muttered Strike, “freezing day and they serve G&amp;T’s”</p><p>They stood together nursing the glasses while Strike looked around for when the food was likely to appear.</p><p>When a Parachute Regiment major walked across to them</p><p>“It’s Strike isn’t it, Cormoran Strike”</p><p>Strike sighed he was thoroughly pissed off with being recognised these days, with people treating him like a long lost friend and expecting all the details to be shared.</p><p>Then he stopped, and really looked at the Major</p><p>“Sir, Lieutenant, sorry Major Leslie is it?”</p><p>Then surprisingly the Major pulled Strike into a hug, a bear hug of a man hug, fist gently bumping his back</p><p>“It’s been twenty years and I’ve never been able to thank you personally”</p><p>Strike was squirming, desperate for this all to go away, fighting down the visions and pain that this man had started.</p><p>“See you are wearing your MC as you should be”</p><p>He turned to Robin</p><p>“I’m sorry Miss?”</p><p>“Ellacott, Robin Ellacott, Cormoran and I are partners”</p><p>“Well it’s really good to meet you, you have got a hero here as a partner”</p><p>Strike grumbled under his breath</p><p>“I haven’t seen this man since the day he saved me &amp; my men’s lives, he’s a bloody hero. And I’m proud to tell anyone that”</p><p>Strike snapped, and in a furious whisper</p><p>“I’m sorry sir, I’m not a fucking hero, I didn’t deserve that medal and I wished I’d never come to this ceremony. It’s a day I wish I could forget”</p><p>Then trembling with emotion</p><p>“Let’s go Robin, we should never have come”</p><p>They made their way out into the street leaving a very perplexed officer behind them.</p><p>“Get a Taxi please, let’s just go home, I want to get away from this”</p><p>Robin had never seen him like this he was shaking like a leaf, his face was ashen, her tough, reliable man seemed on the brink.</p><p>“Come on love, let’s get you home, I’m sorry I forced you into this, I’ll help, just share with me what on earth is wrong?”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Robin finds out the story &amp; why Cormoran feels he isn't a hero</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As they’d left early, Robin was able to grab one of the cabs that was waiting so patiently to collect the VIP’s attending the service. The Cabbie was somewhat disappointed that he’d only picked up a short fare to Denmark Street.</p><p>Robin held Cormoran’s hand throughout the journey, dealing with paying the fare, steering Strike up into their little attic flat.</p><p>The whole time Strike seemed to be scarcely there, seemingly acknowledging her presence, he sat on their snuggly sofa, the sofa that Robin had cheered up with a soft throw, and bright cushions.</p><p>He was there, but wasn’t, his unfocused stare was alarming her a little, then she remembered some of her classes. PTSD Symptoms, the ‘1000 yard stare’. Disassociation from reality while a particular moment is replayed over and over in the mind.</p><p>She did the only thing she could think of to help, she wrapped herself around him, hip to shoulder, resting her head against his chest. She made gentle, soothing motions against his chest &amp; stomach.</p><p>Whispering to him</p><p>“It’s OK, I’m here for you, you’re safe, I won’t let anyone hurt you”</p><p>Strike seemed to realise where he was and laid a kiss on the top of Robin’s head</p><p>“Thank you LB”</p><p>She sat up, her expression full of worry and concern asking him</p><p>“Would it help to share? I’m here for you Cormoran”</p><p>Strike paused and stared away again, she squeezed his hand to get his attention</p><p>“Tell me please Strike, I love the man you are, but the man in the past is causing you so much grief, please let me help. You know everything I’ve suffered”</p><p>It seemed Strike was fighting an internal battle. Eventually, squeezing her hand he said.</p><p>“I’m just worried, I love you so much Robin, that. That if I tell you this, you might not see me the same anymore. Sigh… But it’s not fair on you to keep it back. So”</p><p>“My first tour overseas, a snotty MP Private, wet behind the ears and assigned to a platoon of Para’s. Tough bastards, half of them had seen action in the Falklands…”</p><p>Robin settled herself against him, listening to the tale fall from Cormoran’s lips as he relived the events that tormented him.</p><p>-----</p><p>They had smelled the village before cresting the rise into the formally beautiful valley, before the civil war had changed its landscape forever.</p><p>Strike thought he’d got a strong stomach, some of the mass graves he’d recently investigated had steeled him for the atrocities that Milošević’s ethnic cleansing had inflicted on this ravaged country.</p><p>But this, this, was a whole new level of savagery.</p><p>There were seven of them in the ‘Snatch’ Landrover they were using, all apart from Strike, from 2 Para. A Lieutenant just out of Sandhurst, with a grizzled Sergeant, to keep him on the straight and narrow. A four man squad was the firepower, a corporal and private who had been together at Goose Green, and would tell their two younger fellow soldiers something about it, after enough Whisky.</p><p>And Strike, the “Fucking Monkey” who was along, in case they turned up something.</p><p>They had turned up something, something from their worst nightmares</p><p>They parked up, just staring at the devastation in front of them. Bodies of woman and children strewn across the little village square, flies feasting on their banquet.</p><p>From the trees that provided gentle shade to the Inn, in better times, three bodies hung, swinging gently in the breeze.</p><p>All the young, fit men had gone to the war and these remaining had tried to fight and save their village.</p><p>The Sergeant stepped down out of the vehicle, barking orders to deploy and check the area out.</p><p>Lieutenant Leslie was pale, trying desperately not to throw up</p><p>Strike burrowed into his Bergan, pulled out his issue Nikon, and began to record the scene. Working as he’d been trained to, trying desperately to compartmentalise the horrors in he was visualising in the viewfinder</p><p>The Sergeant came alongside and passed Strike his Rifle, to sling over his shoulder.</p><p>“Best have this on you just in case,”</p><p>Strike was taking pictures of the strung up bodies when his companion commented.</p><p>“Bastards! Old men and a child, what fucking chance did they have against them”</p><p>Strike, analysing the scene, as he’d been taught, responded</p><p>“At least it looks like they were dead before they hung them, bullets in all of them”</p><p>After Strike had collected all the images he could, running out of film was pretty well a hard stop to his work anyway. He approached Lt Leslie:</p><p>“I’ve gathered all I can for an initial investigation Sir. This is too big a job for just us, I think we need a lot more people, to just bury the bodies. Could I suggest we head back to our base and arrange to come back in force?”</p><p>Although there was a disparity in rank, officers tended to take notice of MP’s advice in crime situation, and this was, by any measure, a major crime.</p><p>“OK Strike, let’s get back and organise coming here tomorrow, we will be losing the light soon anyway</p><p>As they all decamped to the Landrover, the Corporal driving already had the engine running when Strike spotted something.</p><p>“Hang on”</p><p>One of the bodies, a young woman, seemed in a strange position so Strike trotted across to check, Lt Leslie accompanying him. Strike gently, turned her over. To find she had been nearly full term pregnant, until her life and that of her baby had been snuffed out with Serbian bayonets. Strike swallowed hard and then heard his Lieutenant throwing up in the gutter.</p><p>He looked at Strike, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.</p><p>“Promise me you’ll bring these bastards to justice Strike?”</p><p>There was no real answer to that question, just a grim nod from Strike.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The Landrover was strangely quiet on the return journey, none of the ribald humour and banter that normally passed between squaddies, they were all lost in their own thoughts. That may have been why they didn’t spot the fallen tree across the road, narrowing the path they had to take.</p><p>Why the tearing rip of the MG42 opening up on them was such a surprise.</p><p>The ambush had worked spectacularly well, the vehicle’s tyres were shredded, bullets zinged through the cab hitting the driver and Lieutenant. Out of control it skidded into the ditch at the side of the road.</p><p>Strike who had been sitting blowing cigarette smoke out of the tailgate rolled out and fell into the weed overgrown gulley. He heard a sound like tearing sailcloth as the efficient German weapon spewed twenty five rounds per second at the overturned vehicle.</p><p>Luckily, the upturned bottom of the truck gave the soldiers cowering behind it some protection</p><p>Sergeant Bainbridge shouted out</p><p>“You OK Strike?”</p><p>“Yes Sarge”</p><p>“Got your weapon, Monkey?”</p><p>“Of course”</p><p>“You’ve got to try and flank them, we’re pinned here. Fucking amateur hour I think, he’s using it like a firehose. Those Kraut MG’s overheat if they’re not used carefully. When it stops you’ve got a chance, takes them several seconds to swap the barrel out”</p><p>Strike crawled along the filthy ditch, peering up through the undergrowth. Pinpointing the hollow up the bank, where the firing was coming from. He steeled himself and waited.</p><p>Then mid bullet stream, silence.</p><p>Strike was out of the ditch and running screaming up the hill, weaving as he went, zig zagging towards the position. Bullets buzzing around him like angry wasps, spanging off rocks, he grunted as a fierce burning pain crossed his ribs. His SA80, spitting, controlled, 3 round bursts, to try and keep their heads down.</p><p>Then he was on them, the two man crew struggling with asbestos gloves, trying to swap out the gun barrel that was glowing red.</p><p>The third man, was desperately attempting to change the magazine on the AK47 he’d been firing at Strike</p><p>Strike had consistently achieved the highest marksmanship scores all through basic. He didn’t miss now. Three rounds ripped through the throat of the machine gun team’s guard</p><p>“Click.”</p><p>Strike heard the barrel locate and the frantic gunner starting to swing his weapon at this Beserker who had ruined their carefully planned ambush. He thumbed the selector to ‘Full Auto’ and emptied the rest of his magazine into his enemies.</p><p>When the Sergeant and private made their own way up the hill they found Strike. He was sitting, pressing a field dressing to his side where blood was already soaking through his shirt.</p><p>Just staring at the contents of the Machine Gun nest he had just single handedly stormed.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Robin, sitting cradling him her head pressed against his chest felt it start to heave and sob. Her heart breaking as her rock, her solid protector sobbed, unashamed tears pouring down his face. Soaking her shirt as all the emotion he’d bottled up for so long poured out as he shared his pain with the love of his life.</p><p>The sobs eased and he wiped his face with his sleeve, he looked at Robins caring features</p><p>“Oh Little Bird, I killed three boys, the eldest was no more than fifteen or sixteen, I slaughtered them”</p><p>“Oh Cormoran, you didn’t know. They were trying to kill you, and your colleagues, you did what you had to.</p><p>Like you always do, you did the right thing.</p><p>If you hadn’t where would you and the rest of your mates be?”</p><p>Strike thought</p><p>“In a Commonwealth War Graves Cemetery probably. But I can still see them, not much older than Lucy’s three”</p><p>“I’m not a hero”</p><p>“Cormoran, you didn’t know when you charged up that hill, you were just trying to save your mates and yourself, you couldn’t have known. The people whose fault it is are the ones that sent them to kill you all”</p><p>“Forget medals and all that, you saved them.</p><p>More importantly you’ve saved me, so many times.”</p><p>”You’re my Hero, I love you”</p>
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